


The Story of Those Who Always Loved You (The We Are Family Remix)

by lls_mutant



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-16
Updated: 2010-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-09 12:19:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lls_mutant/pseuds/lls_mutant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hera's known more than one family.  And she remembers them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Story of Those Who Always Loved You (The We Are Family Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [grey_sw](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=grey_sw).
  * Inspired by [Family Snapshot](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/800) by grey_sw. 



_Bright. Light._

She doesn't know the words yet, but Hera instinctively turns her head. Bright light, golden and friendly. She smiles and reaches out her hands. She can see her fingers, and her skin against the light makes pretty patterns.

_Pretty._

No, she doesn't know the words, but she sure knows the concept. _Pretty._ Pretty is things that she likes to look at. Things like the leaves that shake on the trees, or the bright colors of the blanket, or Mommy's face.

_Mommy._

_That's_ a word she knows, and she wants it. She wants the warmth of Mommy, she wants to nestle close and feel Mommy's arms around her, she wants to see her smile and smell that Mommy-smell. She wants comfort, she wants her home with the bright blankets and her stuffed _Bunny_ (another word she knows) and Mommy singing.

"Mommy." She cries out, because she knows Mommy will always come. Mommy will always be here.

_Eight._

There's a face in her view now. It's a pretty face, with skin like Mommy's and dark hair like Mommy's but she's _not_ Mommy, and Hera screams. The face draws back, contorting in distaste.

"Brat makes my head hurt." The words are just noises to her, but she knows the tone of anger and she continues to cry.

"Boomer!" Another _pretty. _

Six.

Soft, gentle hands reach out and pick Hera up. She's cradled against a shoulder and there are arms around her and there is singing, and she snuffles. It helps.

But it's not _Mommy_, so she still cries.

***

_Eight._

It's that face again, the angry one. But right now she's not angry. She picks Hera up, cuddles her close, sings softly. She's becoming familiar, and _Mommy_ is starting to fade. Not that she knows that- her memory simply does not have that capacity.

Hera tries to form words. "Eat." She's almost sure that that's what she said. "Eat." Her tummy cramps- it _hurts_. "Eat!"

But _Eight_ keeps singing, and Hera starts to cry.

_Noise. Footsteps._ Hera snuffles, and turns instinctively towards the door. Strong and safe.

_Four._

"What's going on, Boomer?" he says.

"I don't have a frakking clue. She just keeps going 'Eeee, eee, EEE!'"

"EAT!" Hera demands.

_Laugh. Happy._ He's smiling. "Have you fed her?"

"She just ate this morning!"

"She has a tiny stomach."

"She should be able to eat less."

"But it doesn't last her as long. And she's a hybrid. She may have a human metabolism. If you would let me-"

"Fine," it's a huff, and Hera cringes back. "I'll get her some crackers or something."

"Never mind. I'll call the Centurions."

Of that conversation, Hera has heard and understood _eat, her, crackers,_ and _Centurion_. None of that results in anything for her to eat. "Eat!" she demands. "Crackers!"

"Rar-ers?" A new voice. _Two._ He's smiling.

"Crackers," _Four_ explains, and Hera looks at him _Two_, pleading.

"Crackers! CRACKERS!"

A large hand on her head, comfort that doesn't fix the problem. "Crackers," he laughs. He takes her in his arms, and _safe_. "You'll get your crackers."

But no crackers appear and she cries until suddenly, _clank. Clank. Clank._

"Crackers," she whimpers.

_Big. Strong. Centurion._

Words she doesn't know, words that make no sense, words that don't even _matter_ because there is now crackers and _milk_ and _grapes_ and _oatmeal_. She reaches out her hands eagerly, and when she begins to eat her tummy stops hurting so much.

"See, Boomer?"

_Boomer_.

"I see."

***

_Cold. Hard. Smooth._ These are all words she's starting to know. She feels them under her fingers, under her knees as she moves around the room.

A pair of legs. She picks up her pace, crawling over and grabbing the fabric. She holds on tight and it's hard, but she pulls herself up and giggles in triumph.

He smiles back.

_Five._

She's delighted to see that smile, and she bounces, holding up her arms. He pats her on the head. "You are a cute little shit," he says.

_Cute_. That's one she knows and she smiles.

He sighs and moves away. Hera flails and reaches out for support. _Soft. Pretty._ She clings to the stability of his jacket at just the right height. He's not smiling anymore. "Can someone get in here before she gets goo all over my pants?"

_Pants._ She falls down to her hands and knees again, crawls over, and grabs his pants to pull herself up. She stretches up, straining for the bright and pretty colors of his… _shirt?_ She can almost reach it….

"Do you mind?" He swats at her. "Mine."

_Mine._ Now _that's_ a concept she understands, and she plops down onto her butt and burst into tears.

"Oh, for frak's sake! Shut her up!"

Hera cries harder. _One._ Of all the faces, of all those… _One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Eight_, the one she knows she fears is _One._ She crawls over and clings to _Five_\- being swatted is far preferable to being near _One._

"What is going on in here?"

The voice is soothing, and Hera stops for a moment, craving that voice to speak again. _Three._ She begins to cry again. "Three! Three!"

"We just fed her," the Five complains.

"She's not saying 'eat'." There's a nice smell, and then hands pick Hera up and she's cuddled close again. "She's saying 'Three'. Aren't you, sweetie?"

"Three," Hera agrees. She leans her head against a soft shoulder. "Three."

Three smiles.

***

_Hurt. Hurt. HURT._ Her tummy hurts, and all Hera can do is cry. They give her food, they give her water, they sing and they cuddle her, but none of it helps and she _hurts_ and no one makes it stop.

"She's here." There's a rush of activity, and someone's beside her. And Hera looks up into eyes she knows she's never seen.

_Eight_. Hera studies her. She's an _Eight_ and she's not making it better, but there's something… she's picked up, and she _connects._ "It's me," the _Eight_ says. "It's Mommy, yes."

It's not _Mommy._ Mommy was somebody else, but there's a something more here, and even though Hera still hurts, everything changes forever.

***

After a while, they fade in her memory again, like the woman who was _Mommy_ before this did. On a conscious level, Hera forgets there are other women that look just like her mommy, and there never was a man that looked like Daddy. _Daddy_. That's a new word, and Hera learns quickly that she loves it, that it's one of the most wonderful words in the world. She learns that he's there with strong arms and a chest to lean on, and he _wants_ to pick her up any chance he gets. She learns that he smells good, especially when he's not dirty, and when he laughs she can feel it in his whole body. She learns that one of the best places in the world to sleep is nestled against his strong chest, especially when he takes his shirts off and her skin is against his.

She learns that this _Eight_, no, _Mommy_ is different than the others. This one doesn't hate her. This one also, Hera learns, doesn't give her whatever she wants when she cries. But the world is so much more secure, and she's so much _safer_ that she doesn't mind.

_Mommy. Daddy. Hera. Family. Love._ These are the words she hears every day now, and they are wonderful and good.

***

There's a rhythm to life on the _Galactica._ That's not a concept that Hera can vocalize, but it is something she understands innately, like so many children do. She's used to the nursery, she's used to activity, she's used to the recirculated air and the algae and the water. After all, it's all she's ever known. She's used to other things, as well. She's used to the feeling of the ship jumping. She's used to the voice that speaks from nowhere. Sometimes, it's boring, when it says things like, "Major Adama, report to the CIC" or "All pilots to the ready room." But other times it says things like, "Action stations, action stations, set condition one throughout the Fleet." In the daycare, they know that means that the fighting will happen, and the bigger kids say it before they begin their play battles.

There are changes, of course, disruptions in the rhythm. Sometimes people she knows go away and don't come back for a long time, like Kara and even like Mommy and Daddy. Sometimes people she knows go away and don't come back at all, like Nicky's mommy and Dee. And there are scary days; days that Hera doesn't talk about because she doesn't know the words, but days that she remembers filled with loud noises and anger and blood. Once Mommy went away for a few days, and the other time Daddy got hurt, and his friend Gaeta went away forever, like Dee and Nicky's mommy.

But those are the things that every child aboard _Galactica_ has to adapt to, to some extent, and Hera does it as well as the rest of them. What is different for Hera is when _they_ start coming aboard the _Galactica_, and she finds that she knows them all.

***

She doesn't see them often, but when she does, she knows them instinctively. _Two. Six. Eight._ They stare at her when she goes by, and she stares back, fascinated. But Mommy always holds her hand tightly, and Hera obeys.

***

Hera's clinging to Daddy's hand and watching the Marines run by in uniform step when they hear that voice from nowhere. "Captain Agathon to the CIC. Pass the word: Captain Agathon to the CIC."

Suddenly, Hera's lifted from her intense study of the feet and she's up in Daddy's arms, and he's jogging with the Marines. She smiles at one of them gleefully, and he waves back at her. Then they go left and the Marines go right, and then they're at the daycare. Hera gets ready to slither down Daddy's body and go play with her friends, but they stop suddenly and Hera's arms tighten around Daddy's neck.

She does _not_ like how Ishay looks with the mask on. She doesn't hear what they say- she's too busy staring at Ishay with the white mask over her nose and mouth and the gloves to listen- but it becomes obvious that they aren't going into the daycare.

The voice from nowhere calls Daddy again. Hera likes to pretend that it's the ship talking. Mommy has explained that it's not- it's something with wires and speakers and a man in the CIC – but it still makes more sense this way. Daddy says a bad word (_frak!_), and Hera giggles but Daddy doesn't notice. He's opening doors and finding people, looking for someone to watch her. Hera's hoping for Kara, but it doesn't seem like Kara's home.

Daddy moves so Hera's on his back, and Hera forgets about Kara. It's time for a piggyback ride, and even if she's going to play with someone else, Hera will never, ever, _ever_ say no to a piggyback ride. The only thing better is playing Raptors. And Daddy's running _fast_, just how she likes it. Hera shrieks and giggles.

Suddenly, she spots them. _Eight, Six, Six, Two._ Hera's pretty sure that the Two gave her crackers once. She waves to them happily.

"She's beautiful," the Eight says, and Hera smiles, because she always likes hearing that she's pretty. The Eight is pretty too, although not like Mommy.

"Uh, look, I'm kind of late," Daddy says. Eights that aren't Mommy make Daddy nervous, although Hera doesn't understand why. She smiles, and the Eight smiles back.

"We heard," a Six says. Her hair isn't long and pretty; it's short and died a darker color. But Hera likes her anyway. "Aren't you supposed to be in the CIC?" she asks Daddy.

"Well, yeah, but I've got to find someone to watch her…" Daddy says and trails off. Hera barely notices. The Eight has covered her eyes, and Hera's waiting for that peekaboo moment. And when the Eight does it, Hera shrieks with laughter. Peekaboo never gets old.

"We could watch her," the Eight suggests. "If it's okay with you."

The Two had been watching, and now he tries, covering his eyes. Hera leans forward eagerly. Sure, she _knows_ that he's hiding his eyes behind his hands, but there's just something so funny about that moment when he-

He pops out from behind his hands, and she dissolves into giggles.

"Just take her," she hears Daddy say, and the Eight that's not Mommy but smiles a lot holds out her arms. There's something very _nice_ about her – something that reminds Hera of Dee - and she goes willingly. Daddy's saying something about their quarters and crayons, but Hera's more interested in the paint that's splattered on the Eight's shoulder. She touches it curiously, and it feels warm under her fingers.

"Go with your aunts and uncles, Hera, okay?" Daddy says anxiously. He looks so worried. "Just for an hour. Be good."

"Bye, Helo," Hera says. Daddy laughs when she calls him _Helo_. But today he doesn't laugh. He just looks worried, especially as the Two speaks.

"She'll be all right. God loves this one."

"_I_ love her," Daddy says, and Hera smiles. They say a few more things, and then Daddy runs off.

Hera smiles up at the Eight. "Want to color?" she asks. "Daddy said _crayons._"

The Eight's smile is almost even _prettier_ than Dee's, and Hera wishes that Dee could meet her. They'd like each other, she decides, as they all head back to the quarters.

***

Hera colors happily, drawing blobby circles and careful stick figures with smiles. The Eight and a Six sit with her, doing their own drawings. The Eight is drawing spaceships, and the Six is drawing a forest with trees and little animals. Hera likes the bunny.

"Do you remember me, Hera?" the Eight asks. Hera looks at her. "I helped take care of you when you lived with us."

"She's three," the Six with the short hair who's drawing says. "She's not going to remember."

"She's the shape of things to come," the Two points out.

"She's a little girl," the short-haired Six sighs. "Athena is right about that. She's a wonderful, precious little girl, but she's still a little girl."

"We must have faith," the other Six says. She has long, pretty hair, and she's pulling the covers up on Mommy and Daddy's bed.

"What's faith?" Hera asks.

"Faith is like a river," the Two begins. "It flows to God, and you swim with it to-"

"She's _three_," the short-hair Six says, glaring at the Two. She turns back to Hera. "Faith is something that you believe in, even if you don't understand it."

That doesn't help, but Hera's tired of the subject. "Okay." She's far more interested in the crayons. She carefully forms a circle, wanting to draw the Six.

The grownups argue amongst themselves, and Hera listens to them in a careless sort of way as she draws. The funny thing is, she _does_ remember them. Not just the Two (who _did_ give her crackers) or Sixes or Eights, but there were others, two. And if she doesn't think too hard about it, if she just lets herself go, she can see them. She can see _One_, an old grumpy man with gray hair, and _Three_, who was pretty and ordered people around, and _Four_, who was dark and strong like Daddy, and _Five_, who wore such pretty clothes. She feels completely at home with these strangers in her quarters, and she colors happily.

The time passes, and finally the Eight looks to see Hera's drawing. She catches her breath, and the others come to see what's got her stunned. There's silence, and for a moment Hera thinks they don't like it.

"Shape of things to come is right," the Two says triumphantly.

And Hera smiles.

***

When Mommy comes home, she's not happy about the drawing. But she changes her mind, and Hera hangs it on the refrigerator. And she's glad. _She_ likes the drawing, and she likes the people in it. Well, some of them, anyway. Mommy doesn't seem happy about it, and she and Daddy are talking about it, but Hera stares at it happily.

Whatever they are, they're family, and Hera knows that. And some day, Mommy will know it, too.


End file.
